


Barfight

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Gotg Prompt Fic [1]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Prompt Fic, barfight, not related to trgtgl, space pirates being badasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 02:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4589022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate beginning for the terrible two.</p><p> </p><p>Prompt given by:  fandomwho</p><p>Prompt: “Shit! Take cover!” yelled the man as he heavily slammed into the nearest door, pushing it closed behind him and readying his blaster to return fire. He heard the shuffle of a body next to him and spared the other a glance, eyes widening when it turned out to be a young teen with a thin neck and a dark tuft of hair. “The hell are you doing in a bar?"</p><p> </p><p>  <strong></strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Barfight

**Author's Note:**

> cw: sort-of hints of underage? Nothing sexual though, just some awkward crotch-grabbing.

The barkeep, a stringy lass in possession of a nifty pair of solarglasses and the biggest chin wart that Yondu had ever seen, heard the closing holler of guards and swore. She grabbed the kid’s half-filled glass and dumped it in the sink before packing the stained beaker into a crate under the bartop, spinning to secure her bottles of moonshine. But Yondu wasn’t interested in her. The kid shuffling away from him was staring like he was a raging Kree. Which – blue skin, check; blasters, check; snarling in a way that promised immanent death of the agonising variety to anyone who crossed him, check – yeah, wasn’t a bad guess. 

Yondu huffed. Perfect. When he needed his arrow, he got stuck with a crappy percussion-pistol. When he needed an ally, he got a Ravager rookie more liable to piss his pants than be of any help in a brawl. Could this day get any more perfect? 

He kept his blaster trained on the empty tunnel – not that it’d do much use. Nearly out of juice. Nearly out of everything, fuck it all – stamina, patience, the lot. But still determined to get outta here in one piece, and with booty in tow. He’d already had a couple of near misses. Nothing more serious than a scald – but it’d been a while since he’d taken plasma-fire, and the grazes stung like salt-rubbed blisters. He’d face worse once the guards realised they had him backed in a dead-end though. 

Twelve of them. One of him… 

Yondu focused on the dark slice of hallway ahead. They’d be rounding that corner any second; rifles at the ready, the dying orders of their boss still ringing in their helmets’ aural receptors. In short, Yondu’s plate was already full. Overflowing, in fact. And now there was a kid. A Ravager kid, who was boggling up at him like a gormless twerp rather than - Yondu didn’t know - doing something _productive_. Like helping cover his fucking ass. 

Well, if he was looking for comfort, he wasn’t going to find it. Yondu couldn’t afford the distraction; not with no arrow by his side. 

“Ain’t the time for playin’ coy, boy! I’ve seen ya on the Galleon, I know yer one of us – so answer the damn question! What you doin’ here?” 

Kid looked a weaselly type – too young to be in the damn bar in the first place, and definitely too young to go scoring big on his own. More brain than brawn. Which made Yondu inherently suspicious – 

“Trying to get in on my job?” 

That was Ravager-code for ‘trying to steal my cut of the pay-cheque’; in turn Ravager-code for ‘answer yes, and prepare for pain’. 

The kid shook his head, eyes wide. He seemed more terrified of Yondu than of the guardsmen pursuing him; while he cringed away from the Centaurian like he’d been caught elbow-deep in the Ravager coffers, the blaster he’d pulled out the moment Yondu crashed into the barroom rested steady in a thin white hand. Yondu was glad. If there wasn’t time for distractions, there wasn’t time for babysitting Ravager brats fresh into their leathers neither. Nope; if the kid was gonna be of any use at all, he’d better how to kill. 

On cue: a holler from the far end of the corridor. A canister of _something_ clicked to a halt against the door. Yondu and the kid stared at it a moment. Then at each other. Then at the array of brightly coloured and highly flammable spirits stacked along the shelves behind. 

“Shit,” said Yondu. 

Thankfully, the guards weren’t stupid, and they wanted them – him – alive. The nozzle on the canister clicked open. Rather than fiery death, thick white steam began to pour. It was sour and smokey, clogging up Yondu’s nostrils. He hacked into a fist, shoving the kid’s shoulder bony shoulder to hustle him into the bar’s far corner. Who knew. Brat might come in handy as an extra gun – or, failing that, a meatshield. 

Gas burnt his eyes. The kid was coughing, but nowhere near as hard as him – musta been from a high-pollution planet, or something. Yondu started off leading, but by the time they reached the counter, they were helping each other to swarm over it. 

The bar was deserted. It was late in the night-cycle for this small satellite pitstop, home only to those merchants who scraped a living out of foisting overpriced tat on any gullible travellers that passed through. And a crystalized lump of flengoffite the size of his fist – the largest in the quadrant. 

Yondu patted the lump in his pocket. Well. Not home to that anymore. 

“Got a spacemask?” he rasped to the kid between chokes, who was peering over the bartop with his blaster nosing at the cloud beyond. It’d started to thin at the edges (thank fuck). Yondu’d be able to see figures moving through it, dark shapes cut to the grain of Cartel guardsmen, with their spiny helms and plasma rifles clipped onto their vambraces, if he was dumb enough to stick his head up. Silhouetted, they were insectoid and inhuman, stooped at the neck as they prodded the body of the unfortunate bargirl and determined her to be civilian. 

The kid nodded. He detached a pill-sized capsule from behind his ear, and slid it into Yondu’s fist. It was a wee bit crusty – somebody hadn’t showered in a while – but neither had Yondu, so he figured he couldn’t complain. He pressed the metal nugget into place and activated it, Black plastic dissolved over his vision in hexagonal chits. _That_ was better. A few sucks of filtered air later, and his head had cleared, blood no longer stuffing up his temples. Nose still a bit raw - but he could deal with that. It weren’t polite to nick someone’s mask though; those things were rare to come by, not to mention damn expensive. Yondu deactivated it with a second press and handed it over, nodding in thanks. The nod was returned – albeit tentatively. _Very_ tentatively. 

Now that set off alarm bells. Yondu’s eyes narrowed. Folks didn’t look so spooked, not unless they’d done something real stupid – and the last thing Yondu needed in the oncoming firefight was _stupid_. He gave the kid a proper once over – and squinted in confusion. 

The kid wasn’t wearing his Ravager reds. 

Yondu frowned. But he’d have to puzzle it out later. The guards approached, boots squeaking on the rubber-gripped floormats, and he and the kid had only gone and chosen the most obvious spot for a hidey hole (that or a last stand, although Yondu was hoping it wouldn’t come to that). 

He motioned for the kid to be silent – not that he was making a peep. The figures prowled closer. A rifle twitched in their direction - 

”Over here,” grated a static-laced voice. Yondu grabbed the kid by the head, one big palm almost covering his crown, and pushed him firmly into the cramped cubby under the bartop. Once in, he tapped him twice on the temple: _stay_. The kid didn’t gripe. His posture was stiff but experienced; the blaster rested in his lap but he kept his finger outside the guard, and Yondu noticed with grim satisfaction that he’d slipped a knife out of his sleeve. Much better for close-quarters. Kid was young, but he’d seen action alright. 

Yondu nodded at him. Then slowly stood, and raised his hands above his head. 

Twelve blaster barrels trained on him. Yondu flapped away a lingering smoke-tendril that was caressing his cheek – earning himself a warning shot of biocoded plasma. It fizzled harmlessly against the stacked barshelves behind. The kid was pressed tight against his leg; Yondu felt him jump. 

“Hi,” he said. 

The kid prodded his knee with his knife hilt. Apparently, he ain’t too happy with this plan. Well, he could suck it up; Yondu was top earner for the Ravager enterprise, and little rookies like this one could damn well follow his orders. At least he was keeping his mouth shut – in reward, Yondu gave him a kick rather than a round through the skull. He raised his voice to carry through the dissipating smoke: 

“Sorry about that whole shootin’-your-boss thing. And shootin’ half yer friends. And destroyin’ your security system – although I gotta admit, it was kinda shite. And stealing that pretty prize bauble of yours.” He grinned. “So. Now we got the apologies out the way, how about ya let me walk outta here and we forget this ever happened?” 

The lead guard loped forwards. Her visor glinted translucent as she passed beneath the light, revealing a pair of unamused reptilian eyes. She ground her blaster barrel against his forehead. The metal was hot, and plasma residue sizzled a purple circle beneath Yondu’s implant, but his grin didn’t waver. He ignored the tug on his trouserleg from the kid – crouched under the counter’s protruding lip, sandwiched between Yondu’s legs and the barfront. 

Hidden. Safe. But he wouldn’t stay like that for long. Not if the guard glanced over – so Yondu angled _forwards_ , into the pressure of the barrel, forcing the guard’s arm to bend. He peered up from under the rifle’s slim snout. 

“Last chance to walk outta here,” he said. And then, because judging by the guard’s unwavering stare, she was unimpressed – “Y’know who I am, right? What I can _do?_ ” 

Her voice was an arid croak. “If you had your arrow, Yondu Udonta, you would have used it right now.” 

Damn. Yondu slumped. “Heck, it was worth a try.” 

Meanwhile, the kid’s tugging was getting… _urgent_. Yondu couldn’t risk a glare, not without giving him away. But if he kept that up he was gonna pull his fucking pants off and it’d just be damn awkward for everyone. Humming, he pretended to shuffle his feet, sneaking in a hearty boot to the kid’s shin as he did so. The kid was sharp enough to smother his yelp. 

“What happens now?” he asked. Behind the plasma-proof visor, the guard’s eyes narrowed. 

“Now, we find out who’s got the highest bid on your head, and whether you’re worth more to us dead or alive.” 

“Oh. The usual then.” Yondu went to stick his hands in his pockets and yawn, but was prevented by a warning twist of the barrel. 

“Keep ‘em up.” 

He snorted. Obeyed. “Whatever.” 

Underneath the counter, the kid – bent at an odd angle with his knees under his chin and his neck crooked to one side – lost patience, and grabbed his crotch. 

Well. That was certainly one way to get his attention. 

Yondu jumped. The barrel bashed his brow ridge, hard enough to bruise – “Owfuck!” 

He tried to ease the kid back by planting his foot on his stomach and _pushing_. But the damn teen hung on, a bony limpet that squeezed him through the front of his leather pants like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to get him off or castrate him. Yondu figured the latter – he was too shocked to be anywhere near turned on, and anyway, the kid was way too fucking young and his fingers were thin and sharp and a too strong for comfort. His zipper dug in like taut cheesewire. _Ow_. 

The guard tipped her helmet at him curiously. Yondu quit wincing every time the kid’s wrist rolled, and forced a pained smile. 

“Leg cramp?” 

Dammit, he did _not need this bullshit._ Not now. 

The bartop came up to his stomach, an opaque barrier of pine green plastic. He glanced down his nose, spying the kid’s pinched, whey-coloured face peering up at him in resigned determination. Oh yeah. He _knew_ the amount of shit he’d called down on himself. Heck, Yondu was half tempted to drag him up by the ear and let the guard finish off the both of them. 

Then he saw what the kid was holding. Oh. _Oh._

Alright. 

“Leg cramp,” repeated the guard, sounding profoundly dubious. Yondu slowly raised his head to look at her. 

“Much better,” he said. The kid’s grip eased off. A bit. Enough to let his voice return to its usual octave. “Now, kid!” 

Apparently, the bartender had had her own unique methods of crowd control. The kid tossed the flash-grenade over the bar. It soared in a high, perfect arc, clipping the ceiling panel and setting the light aflicker. The guards turned as one. They followed its steep parabola – _stupid_. And Yondu dived down, crushing the kid under him and poking the spacemask under his jaw to activate it before flinging his arm over his own squeezed-shut eyes. 

Flash grenades this powerful could blind you for a fucking week. Longer if you were unlucky. Yondu pitied any rowdy patrons that the barkeep had seen fit to punish with one - at least he now knew why she’d worn those ridiculous solarglasses. Even behind the dual-protection of his eyelids and his sleeve, the white flare burnt. It ate into his retinas, acid and hot needles, worse than catching a supergiant in your peripherals. Yondu bit down on his tongue and bore it. He didn’t know how long he lay there for, before a skinny hand tugged on his elbow and he recalled that his cushion might need to breathe. 

“Heck,” he groaned, rolling off. He couldn’t see much, but he heard it when the pancaked kid thunked his head back against the floor and sucked oxygen through the thick filters of his spacemask like he’d been half-drowned. Yondu possibly, potentially, should have felt a little guilty. Lad was built like a bundle of twigs, and he wasn’t the littlest guy. Still. Couldn’t he have thought to activate his mask _before_ he chucked the damn thing? 

“Don’t you bitch,” he warned, poking the kid with his boot cap. “I just saved yer goddam vision. You can thank me later.” 

They laid side by side, flat out on their backs. The stashed moonshine bottles dislodged by their dive rolled gently between them. Eyesight returning in dribs and drabs, Yondu blinked, smacked himself a coupla times on the temple, and hooked one by the neck, cracking the seal and taking a well-earned draft. It was all vinegar – he scrunched his nose, but swallowed anyway. 

“Stuff’s mank. Want some?” 

The kid couldn’t be more than sixteen. Barely old enough to shave. But he was a Ravager, and Yondu’d wager that he’d been drinking and fucking since he was old enough to know liquor from piss. His prediction was proven; the kid shyly nabbed the bottle and – peeping at him for permission – downed a long swig. His spacemask folded away from his lips outwards. Yondu watched his scrawny throat bob, then grinned as the taste almost made him hoik it up again. 

“What’s yer name?” he asked. 

The kid coughed and spat against the back of his hand. “This the time?” he croaked. 

Yondu shrugged. “Don’t see why not.” 

The bauble was in his pocket, unharmed – not that anything less than a supernova could do it damage; you could crush this thing under an M-ship and it’d still be an uncracked prism. S’why the stuff sold for so much – put it under a ray of light and it’d hone it so fine that it’d slice through goddamn fucking vibranium. He’d be tempted to keep it for himself, if he hadn’t been contracted. But Yondu didn’t back out on a job. As useful an addition as it’d be for his gadget collection (and as nice as it’d look on his console), he’s got a reputation to build. _Baddest Ravager in the skies_. That sorta thing takes work, and a helluva lot more foresight than bagging a pretty flengoffite laser-lens for himself because it might come in handy next time he needs to crack a safe. 

But anyway. The guards were flat out and groaning, bemoaning the loss of their sight. The barkeep lay concertina’d in the doorway, having inhaled a good lungful of knock-out gas, and the corridor beyond her outflung arm was clear. They hadn’t called for reinforcements. Not yet. But the path to Yondu’s ship would be fraught with danger regardless, now the boss of this place was dead at his hand. All in all? This was the most peace they were likely to get. 

The kid rubbed his neck, bottle cradled to his chest. Refused to look Yondu in the eye. 

“Kraglin,” he said. 

Yondu rolled on his side, propping his chin on a palm and blinking the last of the bright flashes away. “Where’s yer coat, Kraglin?” 

Kraglin’s thin mouth soured. “Dumped it,” he said shortly. Took another gulp to absolve himself from elaboration. Yondu scratched his jaw. 

“You desertin’?” 

The bottle left Kraglin’s lips with a wet pop. “Somethin’ like that.” 

Yondu looked at him a long moment. Then slumped on his back again and reached for the bottle. Kraglin squinted at him, dubious, like he suspected this was some kind of trick – but Yondu beckoned his fingers and he deposited the moonshine, yanking his hand clear the second he’d let go. 

“There’s room on my ship, if ya change yer mind,” is all Yondu said. 

Then he stood. Took another long draft. Held out the bottle, and shook it until the kid accepted his parting gift. “Might see ya around, Krags. Ya did good today.” 

And he vaulted the bar and marched out, giving the lead guard a good kick for her troubles. 

________________________________________ 

Yondu ducked and weaved through the throng around the dock. The flengoffite diamond bounced on one hip, the empty blaster on the other, and he’d hidden his implant under the hood of a cloak lifted from the back of an unsuspecting merchant. So far, his getaway had gone easier than expected. He only had to sprint three times, and for each of them he’d soon lost his pursuers in the milling crowd. In fact, he made it to the ramp of his M-ship before meeting any real hindrance. 

Footsteps behind, closing quick. Yondu tensed. Waited until they’re in range. Whipped around – and pressed his juiced-out blaster against Kraglin’s skull. 

“That ain’t got nothin’ left in it, sir,” Kraglin said. 

“I could still clock ya for sneakin’ up on me.” But he relented, holstering the damn clunky thing with a huff. Give him an arrow any day. Kraglin stared up at him, all untrusting grey eyes and wobbly poker-face, worrying the ragged edge of his sleeve. He couldn’t be more obvious if he tried. Yondu let the tension sit. Then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Git in, then. Go on, before I change my mind.” 

Kraglin scrambled up the gangway without another word. 

“I’ve got some spare leathers in the back!” Yondu called after him, punching the closing sequence into the door. “And Kraglin?” 

“Yeah?” 

“If you ever grab my dick again, I’ll shoot you.” 

Something – percussion fire? – smacked into the lifting ramp, juddering the entire ship in its bay. Yondu rode out the shakes, and cocked his head as the click of the lock almost eclipsed the yell from outside. 

“Yondu Udonta! Open your ship immediately, and surrender yourself to the guardsmen!” 

Fucking amateurs. He snorted and walked into the cockpit. There sat Kraglin – the little _shit_ – perched right at home in his pilot’s seat. Damn kid looked like he was trying to hide a smile. 

“Yes sir,” he said, and gunned the engines.

**Author's Note:**

> **As I’ve filled quite a few prompts on my tumblr, I figured I might as well start my AO3 collection! Most (all) of them are Kragdu, with some pre-gotg Peter thrown in if only because I’ve missed writing that adorable lil butt-monkey.**
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> **So, as you can tell, this is a completely different universe to TRGTGL. It’s an alternate concept-world that popped into my head, where Ravagers get picked up/snatched/rescued/kidnapped as children and train in the grand old art of space piracy from there. So Kraglin’s around fifteen-sixteen, and Yondu’s ten years or so older. :3**
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> ****


End file.
